


what's going to be left of the world if you're not in it?

by Analyse (D_Willims)



Series: it'll still be two days till we say we're sorry [10]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Apocalypse Averted But The Trauma Lives On, Gen, Good Sister Allison Hargreeves, I Heard A Rumor There's No Incest, Number Five | The Boy Needs A Hug, nobody is okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-18 17:13:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19338955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/D_Willims/pseuds/Analyse
Summary: Five needs to erase that day from every timeline.





	what's going to be left of the world if you're not in it?

**Author's Note:**

> Fic title from "Good Grief" by Bastille.
> 
> Series title from "One Week" by the Bare Naked Ladies.

He steals a bottle of scotch from Dad’s office and gets drunk in the kitchen. _Very_ drunk. So drunk he doesn’t think he can even stand. The radio Mom keeps on a shelf above, between the flour and the sugar, is playing softly. And he drifts off to the sound of sickly-sweet pop songs.

He wakes in a panic and mid-jump. Lands hard on his knees. The pain reverberates through his body and for a second he’s _old_ again. Tired and worn out. It takes far too long for his eyes adjust to the dark, to blink away the ash and dust floating in the air. To stop feeling the burning air on his skin. His stomach feels like it’s still moving, still jumping through time and space.

He’s in one of the bedrooms at the Academy. Diego’s bedroom. The apocalypse hasn’t happened. _Yet_. On the bed, Diego’s corpse sits up with a groan. Presses a hand to his shoulder. Diego’s mouth opens wide in a horrifying scream.

“Five? What’s going on? Are you okay?”

He’s obviously not okay. Diego’s talking to him. It’s not real. With a groan, he pushes to his feet. Blood beads on his knees and rolls down the ash on his legs. When he looks down, the stiff pajamas are clean. That doesn’t make any sense. Trembling, he takes one step towards Diego. A second, a third. Trips over nothing, trips over debris.

“Hey, hey, hey. Sit down before you hurt yourself.”

He catches himself on Diego’s chair. His fingers curl around the soft fabric of Diego’s sweater and worn out jeans. Something sparks in his brain and all at once he understands.

He blinks owlishly, tries to adjust to the sudden influx of light. Klaus’s room is _too bright_. The little fairy lights strewn across every wall give the room an eerie glow. It’s not supposed to be bright anymore. His stomach roils. But he has a mission and he doesn’t have time for being sick.

“What the fuck, Five?”

He thinks it’s better that Klaus doesn’t try to get up. Just yells from his bed, from under his blanket. It’s easier to convince himself Klaus isn’t a corpse when the blankets obstruct his pale face. The skeletal hollow-ness to his cheeks.

“Give me back my pants!”

He lands in Luther’s room next. Tears well up in the corner of his eyes. His hold body trembles as he clutches his bundle to his chest. Clinging to his prizes like they’re the only thing that’s real. Maybe they are and maybe he’s finally losing his mind. How is he supposed to know?

“Are you alright?”

He turns. Luther looks deathly pale framed by the moonlight. Bile rises in his throat and he holds the soft clothes tighter. Moves forward, determined. Ignores the stiff ache in his knees. Because Luther’s corpse isn’t real, isn’t talking to him. And he needs to just keep going, keep moving. This isn’t the end. Don’t stop now.

He lands with a soft thump on Allison’s bed. Allison is awake, moving. Animated unnaturally. But Allison is silent unlike his brothers banging around in the hallway. When Allison opens her mouth, nothing happens. And it’s a horrible relief.

_He remembers blood. It spills like a sick poetry from Allison’s throat and stains Alison’s white shirt. Floods the cabin’s wooden floors. Too much blood. And everything is all wrong. This isn’t how Allison dies. Allison dies buried in rubble and coated in ash._

He gags, falls off the bad. Closes his eyes against the revenant that lurches after him. Stumbles towards Allison’s closet and curls his fingers in the worn, itchy wool of her coat. Clings. Tugs it into his arms as a hand lands on his shoulder. Solid and unyieldingly _real_.

He flinches. Jumps again. The hand on his shoulder squeezes tighter. Is still squeezing when he drops to his knees in the courtyard. Bile rises in his throat again and he heaves on the cobblestones. His mind screams at him to stop. It’s dehydrating, he doesn’t have more food. Stop being sick.

He winces when the second hand presses to his back. Rubs slow, gentle circles. _You’re alright_ , Allison seems to say but she makes no noise.

“I can’t… can’t…”

He’s crying. Fuck. That isn’t supposed to happen. It’s been decades since he allowed himself to cry, to shake and sob. Feel his joints rattle. Fall apart at the seams. Breaks along cracks he thought he’d long since patched up.

He had his family back. But he keeps losing them over and over and over.

He swallows. Steadies himself. It’s stiff and mechanical and he likes it better that way.

“If I can… if I can take away the circumstances of that day, then it can never happen.”

He explains. Too fast as all the sparks start firing off in his brain. Swallowing, he licks his dry, cracked lips. They taste like bile and tears and blood and smoke and ash and black coffee and sprinkle donuts and peanut butter and marshmallow sandwiches. Allison moves to kneel in front of him, catches him by the elbows.

“Do you understand?”

He can’t look at the pity in her eyes. _It’s already over_. The apocalypse was a week ago and nothing happened. Everything happened. They’re still standing. And it makes so much sense to him to just destroy the clothes they died in. Erase the day piece by piece until it couldn’t possibly happen.

He clings tighter when Allison starts to tug the clothes away from her. As if he could hope to match her strength. Allison is in her twenties, at her peak. And, not that he’d ever admit out loud, Allison was always better in a fight than him. Stronger, faster, harder, cleverer.

“Please, just let me do this.”

He hates the way his voice cracks—changing _again_. The way he wavers. And the way he leans into the touch when Allison presses fingertips to his cheek. Allison nods slowly and then resumes emptying pockets. Drops switchblades and baggies of pills and change onto the stones.

He blinks. The world swims and for a minute he sees Allison the way he knows her. Covered in ash. Buried. Fighting. And then Allison is back and alive and dead all at once.

He jumps because he can’t stay there too long. Tastes rot on the air. In the kitchen, he grabs the box of matches. Sways on his feet. Then grabs the bottle of scotch again, too. Jumps back. Allison has piled the clothes up nicely. And when he can’t strike a match, Allison takes them from his hands. Lights a fire.

He can’t breathe through the smoke. Can’t move because he has to be sure. Instead, he opens the bottle and drinks until he can’t think anymore. When Allison wraps an arm around him, he’s too drunk to hold himself up anymore.

He doesn’t cry when Allison presses a kiss to the top of his head. It’s just the smoke making his eyes water. That’s what he tells himself when he wraps his arms around Allison’s waist and clings to her softness.


End file.
